Two boobs good, four boobs better

I have already put the world to rights, or at least I thought I had.  It’s just as well I left it open for a sequel.

Men the world over are letting the fucking side down and I have got to do something about it.  WE have got to do something about it.

I simply will not stand for anymore of it.  Here you’ll find another list of what some “men” are getting up to, it must stop.

1.  Thou shalt not count calories

Ladies -  This is how a man should look.  If you’re man isn’t man enough to look like this before you know it he’ll be raiding the tampons and gorging on Special K.  Is that what you want?

Men – if your woman ever looks at you and mutters “Do you really need a straw in that gravy?”, you should fight back.  Never resort to violence, for we are more cunning than that.  Simply turn the tables and respond with “Fuck you, you fat cunt”.  It’s all about subtle psychology.  If she still gets upset it’s only because she’d have to spend a fortune on surgery to get tits like yours.

2.  Thou shalt not use internet speak such as “OMG”, “LOL”, “semi colon dash close bracket” in everyday actual face to face conversation

I swear to holy jeebus that I actually witnessed two grown men using these phrases while talking to each other in a coffee shop the other day.  They were both wearing suits, both were not taking the piss, both were talking about their wives and kids.  If I wasn’t so disgusted at their behaviour I would have wrestled them to the ground and slowly dragged my sweaty scrotum across their top lips.  Having said that they probably would have tweeted the whole fucking thing while rofl-ing.  Cunts.

3.  Thou shalt not watch soaps

No one cares if Phil Mitchell is fucking Vera Duckworth, or what any loser character on Fair City is up to.  Next time I see a man sitting down to an omnibus of Emmerdale Farm with a nice cup of tea I’ll send Twink over to drag her sweaty scrotum over their faces.  I would threaten to dip their nuts into a cup of electrified leprosy, but any man who is up to speed on any of these programmes traded in their marbles for a nice comfy vagina a long time ago.

Oh, and if you ever need another reason not to watch soaps, wrap your eyeballs around this beauty.

4.  Thou shalt not drink cocktails

Does he look manly?  No, he looks so precious and innocent.  At night when he’s helped all of his female friends pick up the men he’s been eyeing up all night, he goes home and cries himself to sleep while wanking over Telly Bingo on the Sky Plus.  He hates himself, his mixed drinks do little to shield his mixed past and emotions from the world no matter how many colours or umbrellas-ellas-ellas he loads in there.  Poignant?  No, gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

And TGI Friday’s do a marvellous Barnamint Baileys.

5.  Thou shalt not be fashion conscious

Gok Wan is a cunt.  There he is there in the middle and he looks more feminine than any of those women.   I know he’s gay and outer than an out house, but still.  Either way, he’s surrounded by a circle of naked women and he’s more concerned with his designer glasses and custom made shirt.  Ironic that he should have a program called “How to look good naked” when I bet he looks like a giant shaven quim with no clothes on.  Be honest Gok, and call the program “How not to look like a furry burger”, because you’d be taking your own advice by not wearing those hideous glasses, bitch.  Oh and the one on the right looks like Alan Carr.

Men stare at women.  Fact.

Some men stare at other men.  Fact.

Why do men stare?  It’s in our nature.  Women, we know you read here too, so don’t blame us for what we are, scientists have proven it.

Ok so you may be forgiven for thinking that they may have been male scientists trying to find an excuse to stare down the cleavage of the hot female student scientist, but this is from a woman scientist.

You’re at a café with the woman in your life, minding your own bidness sipping on some spresso when your eyes move inexorably toward another woman walking by.

In one-fifth of a second, before the conscious mind has had a chance to react, the male brain has rendered judgment on whether the oncoming stranger is sexually hot.

If the ruling is favourable, physical manifestations are immediate.

Pupils dilate, heart rate spikes, testosterone surges and the eyes assume a vacant stare — sure signs that the “man trance” has set in.

For genetically preprogrammed men, the offence is as involuntary and natural as breathing, says brain researcher, neuropsychiatrist and author Louann Brizendine, whose book, The Male Brain, mounts a unique defence for such male indiscretions.

We are more visual, more driven to sexual pursuit and more predisposed to cheat than women, she writes.

The sexual pursuit area in the male brain is 2.5 times larger than the one in the female brain “consuming him with sexual fantasies about female body parts,” she concludes.

Consider the implications.

This amounts to conclusive physiological justification for the male practice of staring at female breasts.

SCORE!

“It’s a reflex that’s built into the brain circuits,” she said in an interview. “At its core biological basis, it’s unfair to criticize men for that initial unconscious circuitry.”

In light of this, male ogling must henceforth be considered genetic destiny rather than anti-social creepiness.

“Listen, I’m not saying it’s a cool thing to do, but I’ve done it,” says a 38-year-old pal named Mark. “It’s like those movie dream sequences when everything goes into slow motion as some gorgeous stranger brushes her hair to one side and makes perfect eye contact. Who can look away from that?”

When we finally do look away, the experience fades quickly for men, Brizendine writes.

Man trances are fleeting moments of unconscious aesthetic appreciation that disappear from the mind as quickly as they emerge.

While our women fume for hours over our indiscretion, we’ve obliviously switched focus within moments to the ball game, where to go for nachos or internal debates over who would win in a fight between Batman and Spiderman.

Spiderman, obviously.

This is another point of misunderstanding triggered by differing brain waves, says Brizendine.

What to us is a harmless moment surveying beauty — not unlike the way we might gaze at a free kick that picks the top corner — is, to our partners, an act of high treason.

But if the socially repulsive act of staring at beautiful women is actually an artifact of ancient DNA, surely the trance-induced man should get a little latitude, no?

Even criminal law acknowledges temporary insanity as an extenuating circumstance in the commission of grievous crimes.

Frankly, I think some apologies are in order.

“I tell women, cut the guy some slack,” says Brizendine. “He may cut you some slack for being moody during your PMS.”

In a counterintuitive twist, she says women whose men have healthy interest in curvaceous passers-by should feel relieved.

“It’s good news for her because it means he’s wired normally and has high enough testosterone to be a fertile male.”

I suggested this to several women who have made mental notes in the past of men in their lives who had the audacity to notice, however briefly, the physical enchantments of other women.

I received the following responses.

“Oh, get over yourselves. This is a desperate, pathetic attempt to justify rudeness and disrespect,” said one with eyes rolling.

This was the most sympathetic of the rebuttals. The others were liberally peppered with profanities.

“Give me a fucking break,” came the response from a particularly sharp elbowed 30-something who spat out her response with cringe-inducing shrillness. “So you guys figure it’s cool for you to stare at hot women and expect your girlfriends and wives to laugh it off, give you a high five and join in the fantasy?”

Asked if that were entirely out of the question, the response was swift.

“You’re pathetic.”

That word again.

In short, gentlemen, no female expressions of regret are forthcoming.

But probe the outrage a bit.

Is this white hot intensity really just about a random glance here and there?

“This issue pricks a pin into that horribly sensitive spot for women of being compared negatively to that model image of femininity,” says Brizendine.

“Women feel competitive about their looks with other women. It’s a very core, basic biology that our female brains are very threatened by other women that might out-compete us.”

The peace-seeking male, then, has only one option: To deny his hard-wired humanity and keep eyes focused at the ground at all times.

Best of luck with that.

When it fails, consider very dark sunglasses.

Been scouring the local newspapers of the country this week and I have to say that they make for a much better read than the mainstream press.

Here are a few of my favourite headlines of the week:

“Granny arrested in mobility scooter drug bust” – Mullingar Mover

Tryin to catch me ridin' dirty

“87 year old Gladice O’Reilly Murphy was jailed last night having been found guilty of drug trafficking.  It took the jury 7 minutes to bring in a verdict of guilty on all 257 counts against the great grandmother.  She had been doing drug runs in her mobility scooter to and from her supplier and customers.

Gladice admitted in court that her use of medicinal marijuana for her hip had lead her to use it more and more.

She told the prosecution:

“Ya’ll don’t know me an’ my problems, bitch.  I’m the biggest supplier of green in the midlands, you can’t keep me down.  Shit.”"

She is currently awaiting sentencing, but it’s believed she’ll be sent to a maximum security wing somewhere having told court bailiffs :

“Ya’ll better lock me up and trow away de key cos I’ll fuck ya’ll up”

In a side story, her great grandson won the local supermarket’s finger painting competition.  Gladice has been heard to say that little Billy’s painting was “da bomb”.

Indeed.

“Steak gets tar-tarred ” – Dundalk Diddler

“German man, Hans Auf was admitted to hospital this week with chronic body odour and tapeworms.  At first doctors were completely stumped as to how the patient could be suffering from so many.  The doctor told us….

“He had over 60 different tapeworms in his digestive system.  When we took an X-ray it looked like the floor on spaghetti day in the local creche.  And as for his smell, it was just that of rotting meat.  None of us speaks German and the only English he knows is “3 kilos mince please”.  It’s astonishing.”

After a local Garda investigation, mostly brought on by a huge local interest and boredom on the part of the Gardaí, some answers are arising.

When Gardaí entered Hans’ home to collect some personal belongings for his stay in hospital, they noticed a pungent odour, similar to that emanating from Hans, only much much stronger.  Following the smell, they entered the bedroom where they found approximately 60kg of minced beef in the shape of a woman on the bed.  The Gardaí have been quoted as describing the scene as “a little jarring” because “the woman was on her back, spread eagle with various puncture holes about her person”. 

Upon questioning Hans with the aide of an interpreter and a strong stomach, they discovered that every month Hans would visit his local butcher and ask for 3kg of meat every day until he had enough.  Each day constructing another part of his meaty partner.

Hans came to this country after his wife died and said that he missed her terribly.  She was the local butcher in his town and she would always smell of meat.  “One of ze zings zat attracted me to her in ze first place” is what we imagine he might say as he doesn’t speak English and our editor won’t spring for a translator.

Hans would fornicate with the meat for a period of two weeks, with an average frequency of tri-daily occasions.  When the mould would no longer hold its shape and the ratio shifted from being in favour of meat to his own deposits, he would discard it and begin a new one.

Doctors say his tapeworms will be easily treated and they’ve signed him up to an online dating agency.

When we caught up with the butcher who supplied Hans with the meat, all he had to say was, “Well, I just thought he liked my mince”

That he did.

Ola compadres agus amigos, I’m here again to give you a run down of the last week’s celebrity gossip.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to turn Ireland’s greatest boobie room into a Perez Hilton wannabe support session.  I couldn’t anyway.

Why?

Well first off, Ireland has no celebrities.  We have people off the telly and radio, but no celebrities.  Any Irish celebrities have long since fucked off to sample the shitty export Guinness elsewhere.

I’d love to set up a gossip site, complete with exclusives that would get me more pussy than a black sack in a canal.  Trouble is, I’d have no one to report about.

Look at Perez Hilton, or TMZ or one of those sites.  All full of stories and gossip about the likes of Kanye West, Lady Gaga, Jennifer Aniston (I’d fucking wreck her, but that’s another story) Madonna and Mel Gibson.

What have we got?  Try looking at Showbiz.ie and you’ll be faced with Jedward and Sean Penn buying a DVD in Dublin.  Whoopdifucking do.

I have to confess here pilgrims that if I was to set up an Irish gossip site, I’d die of boredom before I’d ripped out my own nuts with a teaspoon.  Holy fuck on a pogostick.  Who gives a flying fuck that two gay incestuous twins from Lucan are going to be in a panto?

Hi I'm John and my thumb smells like Edward! It's totally ridiculous!

Do you know what would be a half entertaining story?  Jedward being bludgeoned to death with a stiff dead goat as a sacrifice to get some annoying Irish celebrity advice of the likes of Twink.  There’s another cunt.

She pops up every now and again and her self righteous big upping of herself and the world that she thinks gravitates around her really gets up my japseye.  Having said that, she’s so much of an eye watering cunt that she’s trained actual celebrities.

She was married once and managed to milk a couple of kids out of the poor fucker, but when he saw what the rest of us saw in her, nothing but a walking cunt, he saw sense and shacked up with someone else.

In a moment of pure genius he kept the recording of a voice message she’d left on his phone.  The older members of our audience will know what I’m on about.  The younger ones probably won’t even know who she is to begin with.  Here’s a quick explanation:

Nope, not in my deepest, darkest moments.

She haunted RTÉ in the 80′s and 90′s along with other telly people that we all had to watch because none of us had Sky or a dish.  And only the posh ones like my mate Trev had Cablelink so could get de BBC and ITV.  Every fucking show either had Gay Byrne, Derek Davis or Twink in it.  The really cunty ones had all three insufferable wank stains in it.  When no one could stand her on the telly anymore, she fucked off to the Gaiety to do whatever role she could get her knob into.  When that dried up she set up a performing arts school for kids, but it was shut down when the kids all died from sleep depravation because her mug scared the shite out of each and everyone of them.  Then when she couldn’t even get a gig in a charity show (A rejection phone call that I once actually witnessed but alas didn’t record) she set about bad mouthing her husband and showing the world what beautiful scummy white trash she really was all along.

When that didn’t work and she couldn’t get anyone to go and see her shitty shows and Joe Duffy even stopped picking up the phone to her, she started selling cakes.  Well it was either that or Bank of Scotland was about to take her 300 year old South Dublin Mansion off of her.

Bless.

Anyway duderinos, I was going somewhere with this.

He's racist and a woman beater, but I'd rather give him a reach around than get one off Twink.

Ah right, shite Irish gossip.  That’s all we have.  It’ll tickle me pink when I see that one half of Jedward has choked to death in a tag team masturbation/asphyxiation marathon gone wrong.  But until then, keep them where they belong, the fuck away from the rest of us.

In the meantime, I suppose we’ll have to put up with our own “celebs” showing the world how to be properly bat shit crazy.

I reckon Twink should sue Mel for some king of performance royalty.  She could probably lower the prices on her cakes.  Or wank off a banker.  A blind banker who has never had his penis touched by another human being and one who is also deaf so that he wouldn’t have to deal with hearing about how great she is while she tossed him off.

Good man Mel.

Computer studies of ocean floors around the world, particularly the area known as The Bermuda Triangle, reveal evidence of massive methane explosions in the past. For years, believers in the paranormal, aliens, and other outlandish theories pointed to the the disappearance of ships and aircraft as an indicator of mysterious forces at work in the “Devil’s triangle.” Scientists have finally pointed the rest of us to a more plausible cause.

The presence of methane hydrates indicates enormous eruptions of methane bubbles that would swamp a ship, and projected high into the air- take out flying airplanes, as well.

Some important type scientist person with no need for introduction, as we forgot his name told us….

“Any ships caught within the methane mega-bubble immediately lose all buoyancy and sink to the bottom of the ocean. If the bubbles are big enough and possess a high enough density they can also knock aircraft out of the sky with little or no warning. Aircraft falling victim to these methane bubbles will lose their engines-perhaps igniting the methane surrounding them-and immediately lose their lift as well, ending their flights by diving into the ocean and swiftly plummeting.”

Brilliant.

Have to say, the alien myth was much more exciting.

Let’s face it, we’re a lazy bunch of fuckers at the best of times.  If we didn’t have to go to work/the dole office, we’d never leave the thing.  There’s plenty of places on the internet to find women that will come to you, and we have it on good authority that the human body becomes self cleaning after a while.

No offence to Will, but in fairness cavemen didn’t exfoliate and condition and they had no problem getting pussy.  We’re assuming.

Remember that video of a dude who lived on his couch and he even had his own theme tune by that weird dude David Byrne?

Well as completely brilliant as his whole set up is, we can’t help but think that it was utterly effort to set that all up in the first place.  All those levers and pulley systems, and don’t even get us started on the robots.  What if they suddenly became self aware.  It would be comedy genius if it happened a la Johnny 5, but such a downer if it happened a la Terminator.  The worry would be constant.

We have the answer.

Build yourself a fort.  Now when we say “yourself”, we do of course mean, get someone else to do it.  Once you have that done you’ll need someone to cater for your every whim, so we suggest getting the same person for both.

"What are we going to do tonight, Brain?" - "Well, I'm gonna sit on my hole and watch you build me a fort you ginger bollox"

We suggest putting an ad on the internet for a loyal sidekick/minion that will work for nothing but insults and the occasional ear clip.  Jobs.ie should do the trick.  If all else fails, just go and find the village ginger and tell them you’ll be their friend if they do you a little favour.Once you’ve sifted through the 27 million CV’s you get, take the ugliest, scabbiest most leper looking wretch and make them your bitch.  Now you’re ready.

Set them about building your couch fort with the following guidelines:

Lots of comfy cushions. The throw pillows your girlfriend left behind when she walked out on your lazy ass will do nicely.  It’s ok to like them when no one else is around.  If your ginger mocks you, take one of his fingers.  He won’t feel it, but it sends a message.

.
The duvet. This is essential for keeping you warm when your body temperature plummets from lack of movement.  Plus it might give you something to hug when you get lonely and can’t stand the sickening thought of using your ginger for body heat/human contact.  If your ginger mocks you for getting lonely, just remind him that he’s ginger and he invented loneliness and you win.

The remotes. Remotes for all of your manly essentials like the TV, DVD player, stereo, Sky box and the wireless controller for your Xbox should always be within reach.  Also, there should be a ready supply of batteries in case one of them doesn’t work.  Of course you could always save money on batteries and just stick your ginger in the balls with a pointy stick when you want something turned on/off or the channel changed.

Take away menus. Before you shout about not wanting to live on shitty greasy food and die of a heart attack before you turn 30, you’re living on a couch, so you have to leave your body image behind.  Plus, do you really want your ginger touching your food?  Didn’t think so, just the thought of it makes you want to vomit, doesn’t it?

A bucket or a bag. You’ll need to empty your bowels and bladder from time to time and there’s only so much your ginger’s cupped hands can hold.

Weights. You’re body will have to be moved every now and again to prevent bed sores.  Weights will help your ginger beef up to enable him to be able to deal with your continually rising blubbery manly mass.  Just make sure he wears two pairs of gloves before touching you or you’ll catch the ginger.

A sponge. Bodies may self clean, but parts of you will start to burn when you pee before that happens.  Get a doctor around, but be sure to hide your ginger, you don’t want to be ashamed of having one of them around.

That’s about it, you’re now ready to live your life on the couch.  If you’re a ginger and you’re reading this and you’ve gotten offended, get over it.  Getting offended is for people who have souls, or listen to Joe Duffy.  You don’t have a soul and you shouldn’t have a radio, now go build a superior normal person a fort.

We’ve all been sat in that meeting or even out for a pint and had one of these things said to us.  Maybe you’ve uttered these bile inducing phrases yourself, and if you have you know who you are and deserve to be taken out and sold to a cult that worships Jedward.

Behold:

“I’ll call you in the PM” – small pricked wanker.

“I Like” – Unfunny Borat impersonating wanker.

“I’m an alcoholic” – Attention seeking party pooping group therapy wanker.

“A-SAP” – CSI watching wanker.

“Did you see CSI last night?” – No I didn’t you insufferable wanker.

“Let’s have a sing song” – Annoying three chord knowing party ending wanker.

“Going forward” – Responsibility dodging living in fantasy wanker.

“Do you have a minute to talk about….” – Street fundraising no friend having dreadlocked charity robbing wanker.

“Last year while back packing” – Non washing shandy drinking rolly smoking converse wearing dreadlocked wanker who paid for his trip by fund-raising for a charity wanker.

“Let’s touch base” – Just as soon as you’ve stopped touching yourself you self molesting wanker.

“Can you liaise with such and such on that?” – Apprentice wannabe wanking over pictures of Bill Cullen wanker

“I can categorically deny that” – Word of the day using wanker

“OMG”, “LOL”, “WTF” – Keep it for the text messages, you lolcat loving, finger up your bum wanker.

“I’ve like been totally singing/dancing/playing my instrument since I was like a foetus” – Lonely on the inside just wants to be loved by Simon Cowell and then fuck us off on some gormless talent show wanker.

“I’m just mad, I am” – Unfunny loud and most probably ginger wanker.

“Someone think of the children” – Joe Duffy bothering head shop doorway squatting ignoring the real issues of the country wanker.

I’m sure there are more, what have wankers said to you?

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

It’s a plague that I always thought was just some sort of fad, but no.

I can’t leave my house without seeing groups of young wans in nothing but Penneys pyjamas hanging around bus stops and clogging up the cues in my local shop buying things like Meanies and Coke and Aero bars.

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

Ok, so maybe nipping to the shop might be ok.  There was a time when you’d see the odd mother running to the shop for milk in the morning for breakfast before the kids went to school, in her dressing gown.  If you lived next door to the newsagent and just wanted to run in for teabags to help cure the Sunday morning hangover, then that might have slipped under the radar.

However, at 4pm in the afternoon buying Red Bull, John Player Blue and Smokey Bacon Tayto does not constitute an emergency, or a once in a while allowance.

Only yesterday I saw a girl in full pyjama fatigues in the bank.  The bank!  That wasn’t an emergency or something that had to be done in a hurry.  Sake.

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

There are a few times when pyjamas are acceptable:

1. At night
2. In bed
3. In your hotel room
4. In a hospital
5. A pyjama fashion show

There are also a few times when pyjamas are not acceptable:

1. EVERYWHERE ELSE AT EVERY OTHER TIME

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

We wouldn’t mind as much if you didn’t actually look like you lived in them at all times either way.  Why do these girls look like they just crawled out from under their never been washed sheets with hair greasier than Ronald McDonald’s pubes?  It’s not just the pyjamas either, is it?  It’s like an entire fucking fashion ensemble.

The slippers, the hoodie, and nothing matches.  They resemble a person who was raped by an Arnott’s bargain bin.

Girls, if you’re going to wear pyjamas outside for long periods of time, at least do it properly.

You know what is another word for pyjamas?  Lingerie.

I can’t think of a single straight red blooded male who would complain if you wore lingerie to the bank, or the butcher.  Sure other women might stare and you might just start a fashion trend that was more Hugh Hefner and less Hector Grey.

I can’t describe how pissed off I get when I see a gang of girls in pyjamas.

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

If you weren’t so relaxed looking I’d assume you had all escaped from a paedophile’s restraints in the middle of the night.

I tell you all, and mark my words, it won’t be long before some poxy fucking fashion design student will put together a line of “Chic py-jamms” that will not only make it acceptable to wear pyjamas in public but will win awards and become some sort of social saviour.  Imagine interviewing someone and they walk in in their pyjamas.  You’ll look at them and ask why they didn’t put any effort into their appearance and they’ll curl their lip, stomp out their fag and declare:

“Wha?  Jaysus, deez are me good Sunday pyjamas.  De stay ah ewe”

And by that time it’ll have gone so far that we will actually feel belittled because we haven’t got our good pyjamas on.

We have to stop this soon, people.  We have to work together.  Next time you see a group of howya’s in pyjamas, strip down to nothing but your boxers and cue up behind them in the Londis.  If they can go to the shop in what they sleep in, then so can you.  This method might be especially effective if you happen to sleep in one of their ma’s.

So girls, for the last time.

Get your lazy knacker arse home and put some clothes on.

Just a short one this week.

It’s really only one tip, but we feel it’s more than overdue here at the Boobiedome.  More and more people are falling victim to this trait that makes them seem like a knob.  Trouble is that the more people who behave like this, the more acceptable it becomes in the first place.

Before we tell you what it is, here’s a few reasons why we think this week’s tip is a valuable public service.

• It is not an extension of yourself
• It is not a penis, a vagina, a pair of boobies or even toes, stop admiring it and stroking it.
• It is no longer a novelty for anyone

Ready for it?

Are you sure?

Here it is.

LEAVE YOUR FUCKING iPhone IN YOUR POCKET UNTIL YOU EITHER RECEIVE A CALL/TEXT OR HAVE TO ENGAGE IN A CALL/TEXT.

I have it on good authority that porn makers are toying with the idea of making iPhone porn.  It will mainly consist of people taking their iPhones out of their pockets every 12 seconds, checking for a message, downloading useless apps, wiping smudges off the screen and stroking the screen to make it move about just because the way it scrolls still gives them a horn.

Well they would make the porn, if they weren’t so busy wanking off their iPhones.

Next week will be a much happier place, we promise.  We’re off to therapy.

We’re still right though.

We’re not the site to get bogged down in the serious issues of life, there’s plenty of other sites around to do that.  But as Editor of this fine site, I decided that this news was just too huge to go unmentioned.

I have a friend who happens to be junior editor in a small local newspaper in Wicklow, he just called me and I can’t believe what he’s just told me.

Here’s what’s just come off the presses:

Click for a bigger view

It goes on:

“As you may be aware, Ireland doesn’t have an abundance of volcanoes, let alone one that we could hollow out and refurbish for our scientist.  Plus a nuclear facility will always have the potential to breakdown and this, in theory could play havoc with the DNA of the scientist’s minions and mutate them.  This is critical as mutated minions seem to be the preferred foot soldiers of evil scientists.”

When pressed by the reporter about why Ireland would need a super evil scientist, the chief CUNT seemed to get flustered and shout:

“Your face!  That’s why!”

Reports are still sketchy and will surely be all over the mainstream news before long.  A lighthouse had to be evacuated for the safety of the resident and a group of teenagers who were knacker drinking on the beach were taken to hospital for observation and stomach pumping after one of them had downed some radioactive water for a dare.  They also had their cider confiscated.

One of the teenagers remarked:

“It’s a load of bollix so it is.  Who are these cunts, taking our drink off us.  They’re panicking because Git drank some of the water, but we’re in Wicklow, all us down here look like lepers with webbed feet as it is, it’s nothing to do with the nuclear water”

A public health warning is currently being drafted up and will be posted on local authority websites shortly.  However, the CUNTS are appealing for anyone who has been exposed to contaminated water to report to their headquarters for testing, saying:

“We need people to come in so that we can examine the full extent of any mutations that may have occurred.  We can promise that we will in no way experiment with anal probes like some people are suggesting.  Also, people should be aware that you can only become infected by being in contact with the water.  You won’t be infected by being bitten.  We’re pretty sure the mutation hasn’t transformed people into flesh eating zombies.  That would be ludicrous.”

They also reckon that there isn’t much to be concerned about:

“Let’s look at it this way, it can only improve their way of life down here.  Remember in Gremlins 2 when one of them drank a brain drink and it made it all clever and sophisticated?  It’ll just be like that.  Imagine if they all started running around singing “New York, New York” in a British accent.  That’d be gas.  But seriously, they’ll have to come to our secret headquarters.  We can’t tell you where it is, but if they find it through the messages we’ve left in the word jumble of the local newspaper, they’ll find it, plus they could win €25.”

Reports are still sketchy, but we were able to secure photographic evidence of some people who were exposed to contaminated water.  We can’t publish it, as it’s quite graphic and some may find it disturbing, but the link below will show you the full extent of the danger.

Be sure to take care, and if we hear anything more about it, we’ll bring it to you as soon as humanly possible.

Discretion (NSFW) and a strong stomach are required before you even consider looking at the horror.

PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE